🌒 The Garden Chair Chronicles, Vol. 2

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Diagnosis at 7:30am

7:30am. One eye half open. Still in a hoodie that smells like last Tuesday.

So apparently I’m now officially broken — but make it ✨diagnosed✨.
At 7:30 in the morning, while I was trying to remember if I'd actually slept or just closed my eyes and time-travelled through pain, the GP called.

"Suspected fibromyalgia."
"Chronic pain."
"Referral to the pain team."
"Amitriptyline."
"And a little something to help your muscles stop acting like they pay rent."

Neat.

⚰️ The Death of Denial

I’ve been dealing with this body-of-betrayal nonsense for years. The pain. The fatigue. The joints that click like I'm made of bubble wrap. The brain fog so dense it needs its own postcode.

So none of this should’ve surprised me.
But the moment someone said it out loud, it felt like a door slammed shut on a version of me I hadn’t realised I was still waiting to come back.

I didn’t cry. But I did stare into the abyss of the bedroom carpet like it owed me an apology.

💊 The “Plan” (or Whatever)

So now I’m on amitriptyline — the drug that says “we’re not sure what’s wrong, but let’s sedate it and see.”
Also muscle relaxers, which I assume will either help or have me melting into the sofa like a candle.

And a 61-day fit note, which basically says:

“This human is out of order. Please try again later.”

I’ve also been “referred to the pain team,” which is code for we’re putting you on a mysterious waiting list in a dungeon somewhere beneath the NHS, good luck.

🥀 Side Effects So Far (Emotional, Not Medical):

Grieving the life I thought I’d get back to

Anger at how long I had to fight just to be taken seriously

A weird calm, knowing I don’t have to keep pretending I’m fine

A sudden, intense desire to throw out every non-stretchy bra I own

🌿 And Still... Hope?

Yeah. Quietly.

Not the big, life-affirming cinematic kind.
Just the kind that whispers, “You’re not crazy. You’re not making this up. You’re not alone anymore.”

This isn’t the end. It’s just chapter two.
And while I still don’t know what I’m doing — at least now I know what I’m dealing with.

So welcome to The Garden Chair Chronicles, Vol. 2.
Diagnosis delivered. Bedhead intact. Reality slightly cracked.
And still here — patching it all together with sarcasm, softness, and maybe some crochet.


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